However Improbable
by Glass Umbrella
Summary: Our story begins when Sherlock and John have a bit of a row over some handcuffs that ends in John, well, taking Sherlock's virginity. Contains vivid male nudity, unbridled sexual fantasy, and bickering during sex. You're welcome.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson was returning to 221B Baker Street with a bag of groceries in hand. He had an admittedly eclectic selection of groceries, but then again he did live with a madman whose grocery requests had consisted today of more nicotine patches, a cat brush (any colour but red), diabetic socks, laxatives, a watch battery, chewing gum, and exactly seven containers of waxed dental floss. He unlocked the door to find the living room empty.

"Sherlock. It's me."

There was no reply. The violin stared at him from the desk. John began to take off his jacket.

"They didn't have a cat brush, they only had dog brushes, so I picked one of those up. And they don't sell watch batteries at the grocery store, like I said, but I stopped at the jewellers... Sherlock?"

Apparently he was not home. Perhaps there had been a new case? Must have been a good one too, for him to leave so suddenly. And without texting. John took out his mobile phone and checked it for missed text messages. As he scrolled through his messages, something large and fierce hurled itself at him from behind the door.

"Jesus!" John raised his arms in defense.

Sherlock Holmes, brandishing a pair of metal handcuffs, knocked him into the table roughly.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John struggled under Sherlock's weight as he snapped one cuff closed around John's left wrist.

"Apprehending... you." He struggled to pin John to the desk.

"...WHY?" John asked.

He heard the clink of keys behind him.

"Oh, no you don't..." John bucked backwards and wrested his body free, elbowing Sherlock back and hurling him against the wall, toppling their lamp in the process. Sherlock steadied himself as John freed his wrist and tackled Sherlock's willowy frame back into the wall.

"I'm practicing " Sherlock explained, coughing with effort. "In case I need to apprehend someone... It may be more difficult than I previously assumed." Sherlock winced, grappling to force John back with his outstretched arms.

"Well, why don't you leave that part to me?" John flipped Sherlock around in one well-practiced movement, twisting his attacking arm behind him, and pressed him face first into the wall, forcing the key from his balled hand.

"This looked easier on television." Sherlock struggled hard against the submission hold, to no avail.

"I bet it did." John forced Sherlock's other arm backwards, though it took considerable effort.

"Ghhh.. _John_..." Sherlock's face flushed, pressed into the wall.

John closed the cuffs tightly around Sherlock's wrists, forcefully, and locked them snug behind his back. He tucked the key into the inner pocket of his jacket, grunting with the effort of holding Sherlock there.

"How do you like that, Sherlock?" he asked, vehemently.

"Not really what I planned," the momentarily subdued detective admitted, the veins of his elegant neck bulging. "What you lack in height, John, you more than make up for in... anger." John pulled him back by the wrists and pushed him forward again, slamming his forehead into the wall. The pent-up frustration of living with Sherlock Holmes had left him surprisingly open to retaliatory violence. In fact, he thought fleetingly, maybe he was enjoying this a little too much.

"There you go, how's that?"

"John I-"

"I'm not_ boring_ you, am I?" He twisted Sherlock's shackled arm back, his thigh pinning him.

"John."

He did not relent.

"John, goddamnit. John. Christ." Sherlock's voice was oddly high and urgent, a desperation present in it that John found both aggravating and strangely appealing.

"Stay still," John hissed.

"Oh, for God's sake. John!" He leaned his knee in deeper.

"Promise me this is the last time you will ever try something like this."

"Mmm, ah, John - you're. _Hurting_. Me..." John looked up over the sharp edge of Sherlock's familiar shoulder and found his widened eyes were glancing back, pleading with him. Glassy. Uncertain. "John, please." His voice was soft now, spent, though still persuasive.

John caught sight of genuine panic and that rarely seen pained expression in Sherlock's face, and it cut right through him. He unpinned Sherlock, who, breathing heavily, turned and faced him, his back against the wall of the flat, hands still cuffed behind him.

"Sorry, Sherlock," he said softly, though not without continued annoyance. He could feel the adrenaline still coursing through him.

Sherlock looked down at John's face and swallowed visibly, his breathing ragged. John's face listed closer. His brow creased with concern: there was a pinkish lump forming near his hairline where John had knocked his head into the wall.

A pang of guilt.

Sherlock, panting slightly from his previous efforts, watched him, intently, suspiciously even, eyes on alert. John straightened Sherlock's collar for him and looked up. Sherlock's lower lip trembled. John, though feeling an instant kind of mutual embarrassment for that quivering lip, pretended not to see it, and surveyed him with a physician's eyes, making sure there was no more damage.

Then, in a moment of pure instinct, he reached out the fingers of his right hand and brushed them across Sherlock's lips, gently.

Sherlock said nothing, only breathed, and watched.

He could feel the warm bulge between Sherlock's legs growing as he pressed himself closely against the long lean body looming over him. It felt so natural that he didn't question it. Sherlock's downcast eyes fluttered closed, resistance melting, and they both leaned into one another tentatively. John kissed him, carefully and tenderly, his hands entwined in the dark curls of his hair, cupping his head gently.

John was surprised at the sudden urgency of his desire, the spreading rapture. He could never have imagined it would be this overwhelming.

Sherlock made a soft moan, deep in his throat.

This, perhaps more than anything, ignited John's desire. He wanted to hear another one. As soon as possible, please. As he kissed him with growing passion, Sherlock's muted sounds of pleasure caught deep in his throat and he produced a low, sudden, vibratory sound.

"You're purring," John teased.

"Am I?" His voice was bewildered, breathy. Unlike John had ever heard it before. "I thought that was the refrigerator..."

He kissed John back, harder, more insistent, then pulled his head away abruptly, his brow creased with wonder.

"Does it always feel like this?" he asked, earnestly, as though he had never understood why anyone would kiss anyone else, and deriving pleasure from the action had never occurred to him. "Is it always this... good?"

John shook his head. Sherlock looked pleased.

"Well, perhaps I possess a natural aptitude, then."

John could not suppress his laughter. He chuckled into the man's delicate shoulder, then pulled his head back to survey the damage. Sherlock looked deeply affronted.

"You don't have a clue what you're doing," said John. Sherlock bristled.

"I have some... notion of it. Of... how..."

"You don't have a clue, and that frightens you. You're not in control anymore, and that frightens you. But you like it. That _really_ frightens you." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully.

"That is at least.. somewhat accurate," he conceded.

"It's completely accurate." Sherlock's pale, harried eyes scanned John momentarily. His breathing was shaky. He looked as though he was trying to suppress an aneurysm.

"John, it's just, I feel... I feel? Christ Almighty, did you drug me, John?" He stared at him accusingly.

"No! I'm not you, remember? I am perfectly capable of wrestling you into a pair of handcuffs without you being drugged. Surprisingly easy, actually. And surprisingly, well, other things, too." He licked his lips, nervously. He was suddenly worried. Suddenly embarrassed, wondering if Sherlock really wanted this. They couldn't take this back. Sherlock's eyes darted downwards momentarily.

Still. Both. _Hard_.

"Well," said Sherlock, "I suppose when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable... is turning me on."

"Mhmm," said John, watching him with an uncertain sense of power that Sherlock had never made him feel before. Something about stomping out that condescension was entirely thrilling.

"Yes, alright," said Sherlock acidly, still pinned against the wall. "Fine. What do you want me to say: you win?"

"Just once, it would be nice."

"That you've out... _muscled_ me?" His eyes were alight with feverish thought. He kept looking at John, and then looking away, and exhaling with effort, and looking back, as though slowly losing the ability to breathe.

"Sherlock."

"What!"

"You don't have to be nervous. It's alright."

"What is?"

"It's okay. This."

"No it isn't." Sherlock's chest rose and fell quickly.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock blinked.

"I-I wasn't... worried." Sherlock glanced sideways. John was hardly convinced.

"Your pulse is racing."

"Well, _so is yours_!" Sherlock spat, defensively. John gave him his best long-suffering sigh, and Sherlock looked away for a moment, blinking slowly, and turned back to John with a tremulous intensity in his expression. "John," he said, softly, deeply, "Despite my better judgment, I want-no, _I need you_. Right now. Without question."

John felt himself swelling, both literally and figuratively with shameless desire.

"You do mean, uh, sexually... just, to be clear?" He cleared his throat.

"Sexually. Yes. Very much. Please. If you wouldn't mind. Don't waste time, John. Kiss me again."

"With pleasure," said John, and obliged, taking hold of Sherlock's jaw firmly and locking their mouths together with a kind of clumsy assurance, while his other hand wandered downwards. Sherlock grunted and pulled his head away again.

"Wait. I'm still handcuffed."

John kissed him again, holding him in place.

"I know." Sherlock half bit his lip, pulling his mouth away.

"Take them off." Their lips were a millimetre apart.

"You_ really_ want me to?" John asked darkly.

"This is... emasculating."

"Oddly enough, I think that's why I'm enjoying this so much."

Sherlock pressed his chest firmly up against John and said, quite fiercely: "My virginity: my terms."

John was compelled by competing urges both to burst out laughing at what was an oddly dramatic and girlish declaration and to simply find the quickest way to give this man exactly what he wanted, right now, over and over.

He took the key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs.

"Did you steal these from Lestrade?"

"Obviously."

They sat down on the sofa. Sherlock rubbed his reddened wrists, until John took over, and brought the long, pale fingers to his mouth and ran his lips over each knuckle.

Now that Sherlock's hands were free, John was actually glad, as he had not realized fully how much he liked these hands. How often he had caught himself looking at them, wondering in some compartment of his mind what it might be like to have these hands run diligently over his skin.

He held one warm palm to his cheek, and closed his eyes. Sherlock eyed him.

"I said don't waste time, John."

John took Sherlock's limp hands and placed them over his own bulging erection, guiding them. Sherlock got the idea and with sudden efficiency unzipped John's trousers and did away with his underwear, pressing him back against the sofa with considerable enthusiasm.

John reached for Sherlock's thighs, but was met with an insistent kiss and a firm, alarming grasp of his own throbbing phallus.

"Ha-_ah_, oh, Sherlock... maybe you should let me, first, to you-or, or-oh, God-don't stop. Don't stop. _ Yes_." Sherlock's mouth closed over John's head and slid up and down the shaft. Electricity. John grasped at the man's neck and shoulders firmly, his eyes rolling back with the sort of unexpected, satisfying pleasure that arrives directly on time.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, sucking deeply and slowly. "You are _very_ hard."

"I don't know_ where_ you learned to do that." Another hot, wet pump inside Sherlock's mouth, the tongue firmly probing. Deep, this time. So deep. And back out.

"I am a genius, John. Honestly, what did you expect?"

"I don't know-just not-" Again, deeper. "Oh, _oh_. Sherlock." And out.

"Yes?" They met one another's eyes. Sherlock looked maddeningly amused.

"Keep going," said John, his voice breaking. "Ah..."

Sherlock did, and John held his lovely head in place firmly, embedding his manhood deep into his throat. Sherlock's tongue convulsed, eliciting a slight gag, at taking the full length of him in. This only served to enhance John's arousal. John held Sherlock's head in place and thrust out and in, back to that deep place again. He wanted to be deeper, closer, further. There was not enough of Sherlock for him to fill.

His fingers gripped dark curls as he levered his weight over the man, pressing in, and Sherlock's head tipped backwards dutifully as John fucked his mouth in sweet ecstasy. Sherlock's hands firmly pushed against John's thighs and after a moment's struggle, John released him, on the verge of orgasm.

It occurred to him that he could be gentler. This was his first time, John reminded himself. But, Sherlock was provoking a kind of unbridled, selfish need in him that had already taken over. He pulled his sweater over his head and began feverishly unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

"John. Oh, _John._" There was a tigerish excitement in Sherlock's eyes.

They kissed, bumping teeth. A bit of frenzied nipping at one another, and Sherlock was out of his trousers and the two of them were entwined in one another's hot skin, caught in a kind of push-and-pull power struggle on the cushions.

Sherlock ran his fingers gently over John's shoulder, over the scar tissue of his bullet wound with a kind of specific intimacy. John leaned forward and dragged his teeth and tongue along the slope of Sherlock's neck and shoulder.

He caressed Sherlock's shaft, moistened already with pre-ejaculate, and felt Sherlock's body tense against his, and then, soon, his struggling subsided as he gave himself over to the firm, well-timed strokes of John's hand.

John guided Sherlock to his feet and pulled himself into a sitting position on the sofa in front of him. He wanted to see Sherlock's face; read the nuances of pleasure on it as he took him closer and closer to climax.

Sherlock's legs trembled and tensed.

"John. God. John. Please. Your mouth." John took the long, thick shape of him between his lips. Sherlock uttered a handful of incoherent syllables, and displayed an array of open-mouthed expressions, each etched with more surprise and pleasure and perhaps, somehow, academic fascination, than the last.

"Mmmfjohn I can't-I'm-"

A hot spurt of semen emptied into John's mouth and he kept sucking, gripping Sherlock's buckling legs and buttock firmly, reliably, swallowing it all down. His eyes were jammed shut, his throat receiving every splash of it with an eagerness he couldn't deny. Sherlock shook, leaf-like in his ecstasy and cradled John's skull, collapsing, finally to his knees and curling his body against John's chest in complete, sweet, satisfaction.

John allowed Sherlock a few moment's reprieve, stroking his damp hair from his forehead, before bending the man's long body over the arm of the sofa and running his hands over the muscles of Sherlock's back, and down to his pleasingly tight buttocks, which John, on a whim, smacked firmly, eliciting a small sound of surprise.

"Mm."

He penetrated Sherlock with one saliva-covered finger. Sherlock turned, apparently not expecting that particular sensation either, and closed his eyes.

As John fingered him, he bent back, arching with the sensation of it, and John continued to probe, smack, and rub while Sherlock's legs spread, perhaps involuntarily, and he moaned deeply, still buzzing from the recent ejaculation.

Two fingers now. Deeper.

"John," came the whisper. Soft, nearly heartbreaking. Needy. He loved the way Sherlock said his name.

John spread Sherlock's legs further apart and levered himself inward, pressing gradually harder, with a kind of rigid self-control he did not know he could still summon. As his tip slipped inside, Sherlock's whole body tensed beneath him. He let out a hiss like a boiling kettle, his entrance tightening. John ran his hands over that long smooth back reassuringly, feeling Sherlock's body slowly, slowly relax as he pressed in farther, gradually, with firm gentle pressure until he was all the way inside.

It felt so fucking good, he thought he might come right then.

He held himself there: the front of his thighs flush against Sherlock's buttocks, his balls mashed up against him, the weight of his body forcing his cock to stick there inside, and Sherlock, under him, slicked in sweat and his face visible only in profile now, as he lay his cheek across the sofa cushion and panted desperately.

"It's... large, John." His voice was half-muffled, exhausted, tight.

"Well, it's all relative, but thanks."

"It wasn't a compliment," Sherlock whispered raggedly at the sofa. "Merely an observation."

"Ah," said John.

"I'm getting hard again," said Sherlock, breathing heavily through his nostrils. "Already."

"You're just full of observations, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded, sweat beading on his brow.

"Does talking during sex arouse you, John?" He seemed genuinely curious.

"Having sex with you arouses me."

"Do you want to ejaculate, John?" John felt his body throbbing, buried tightly.

"Oh God, yes, I do." He leaned back to thrust again, wildly.

"You aren't planning to blog about this, are you?" John leaned forward in exasperation.

"Will you stop. _Talking_. Sherlock. I am trying to get off."

"Oh yes of course. Please continue." He paused. "Also feel free to slap me again. I enjoyed that."

John obliged, smacking his palm down a few times against Sherlock's flushing skin. Any sense of measured care that John had been taking was pretty much dead now and he held Sherlock firmly down, to ensure his full cooperation, and grinded his hips against him hard. He grunted, forcing himself in and out, finding a rhythm quickly and feeling his balls slap against Sherlock's firm arse repeatedly.

With a kind of elevated glee, he watched Sherlock give in once more to pleasures thus far unknown as John's organ thumped against his sensitive prostate. He rode him hard. Sherlock gripped the cushions with both hands, knuckles white. The furniture was shaking with such force that if Mrs Hudson had been home she might have inquired about the noise.

It was as though Sherlock's pleasure was infinitely multiplied by the sheer novelty of the experience, and John's own response to this was one of overwhelming, head-exploding desire.

"Yes. John. There. Ah. John. Good. Yes. Ah. Ah."

Just the sound of that voice: raised in helpless short gasps.

"Sherlock-fuck, Sherlock, yes." The incredible release of his long awaited orgasm rushed through John's body, powerful and sweet and all-consuming. He pulled out mid-come and spilled all over Sherlock's backside, and all but collapsed onto him, grunting out a low sound that turned, inexplicably into a soft mewing sigh.

Sherlock, after a long moment, snaked himself upwards and guided John back onto the sofa cushions, where John lay back, tender and still. Sherlock was nestled on top of him, quite comfortably light, and John closed his eyes, breathing out heavily. Sherlock pulled John close and pressed his smooth cheekbone against John's face, in what could only be described as a nuzzle.

"I'm not-I mean-I didn't think-I was... gay. It's just-it's you, Sherlock. There's something." His eyes were still closed. "I didn't know...that was what I wanted. And I didn't know you could maintain... sexual tension, while actually having sex. I mean it was... it was... I'm not making sense. I shouldn't even try... talking yet." He sighed.

"You should try not talking more often, John," Sherlock said, his voice low and soothing and gloriously close. John smiled. Sherlock looked at him quite seriously. "Now, was I really purring?"

"It was a kind of Sherlock-purr," John said.

"Definitely do not put that in your blog." He looked deadly serious for a moment, then smiled: a smooth, humouring grin.

"No," said John.

"I'll need my handcuffs back," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. "I intend to win next time."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's notes:_

_I didn't originally intend to write a second one of these, but the reception was so positive for the first one I decided to write another chapter that deals with the fallout of the, um, events in Chapter 1. This one has less sex and more banter. I didn't plan it that way, but that's how it happened._

**However Improbable - Part the Second**

221B Baker Street had been a quiet place lately. For two days on end, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been called off on a double murder case. John wondered if the head in the fridge was lonely. He and Sherlock had been back and forth between crime scenes and the police station so many times in the last forty-eight hours, John had lost count. But, now that the murderer was caught and the case laid to rest, John and Sherlock had returned to Baker Street. It was late on a Thursday night and a soft rain fell outside the window. John was exhausted, but there was something he had been meaning to talk to Sherlock about, before either of them slept.

John stood in Sherlock's bedroom doorway and watched Sherlock take his coat off and rest it on the chair near his bed. Sherlock's attention had, up until now, been entirely absorbed in the case, so John had excused him of addressing the issue of their recent sexual encounter, and tried to brush off the fact that Sherlock hadn't so much as given him a peck on the cheek since.

"You are hovering in my doorway," said Sherlock vacantly, untying his scarf. "You must have a reason."

"Yes. Sherlock. I know we're both tired, but I just, uh, wanted to clear the air. About, you know..."

"You want to have sex?" Sherlock looked at him, wide eyes blinking expectantly. John squinted, clearing his throat.

"Well, actually I just wanted to talk about that, first. About the sex." He paused. "That we had."

"I don't want to talk about it, John. Talking about it is boring. Doing it: well, now... that is something else." Sherlock stepped closer, his gaze growing more than a little predatory. John swallowed.

"Look, Sherlock, I agree. I agree completely but, just, don't you think we should maybe, I don't know, define some-"

"No."

"Maybe address-"

"No." John threw his arms up in exasperation.

"WHAT ARE WE GOING TO TELL PEOPLE?"

Sherlock's brow knit together. He crossed the room and stopped a foot away from John, looking at him keenly.

"_Nothing_, John."

"Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?"

"There is nothing to tell," said Sherlock. John could hardly contain his disbelief.

"We shagged, Sherlock. We did it. We _banged_. You-_you_ banged someone. For the first time. I-_I_ banged you. _I'm not gay and I banged you_. That's-that's..."

"John, as ever you amaze me with your ability to state what is painfully obvious."

"As ever I? I? As ever YOU-oh, fuck. I don't even know why I try."

"Frankly neither do I, John." He eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. "I like you a lot more when you've got me pinned to a wall." He raised one eyebrow. John crossed his arms over his chest.

"So that's it then. It's just sex to you."

"Well, sex is sex," said Sherlock impatiently.

"I know that! I know sex is sex! I am asking you if it's ONLY sex. I'm... I'm... not sure how I'm supposed to feel. And I'm not sure that you have feelings. Beyond sexual ones. I mean."

"Do _you_?" Sherlock asked. The silence between them, for a second, was perhaps the fullest silence John had ever felt.

"I have... some." John felt his face burning.

"Good." Sherlock looked at him oddly for a second, as though both unsure and relieved by his answer.

"I guess it is good." John scratched the back of his head and looked out the window, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him.

"Look, John. You can work out all these... these feelings things with your therapist, can't you?"

"No, Sherlock. Not this."

"I see."

John tried to collect his thoughts. His mind was clouded with tiredness and he found it difficult to express whatever it was that had been nagging at him for the past couple of days.

"I don't want to bang a machine, is what I'm saying. I want to know you... care. I guess. There, I said it. I want to know that, before we do anything else." Sherlock considered this for a moment, and looked mildly concerned.

"Have I ever done anything to convince you I didn't care?" he asked, his tone resonant.

"So I'm to assume that caring is your default state?" Sherlock didn't answer. "And I have a long, long list of things you've done to convince me otherwise. I don't even know where to start. You can't even tell when I've left the room, for one, you just-"  
Sherlock suddenly stepped forward and pulled John into his arms, stifling the sentence with a hard, needy kiss. John tried to pull away, but was met with Sherlock's resistant grasp and melted helplessly into the embrace, locked in the kiss.

"You see, John? This is better." Sherlock's hands were all over him.

"Mm... Sherlock." Sherlock kissed him hard, turning him around and pushing him a few steps back, pressing him back into the bed, hands on his shoulders. He ran one hand over the crotch of John's pants, grasping. John let his body be pressed underneath Sherlock's weight, feeling the heavy grind of his hips.

Sherlock took John's hands from his sides and held them above his head, against the headboard, wrapped in his long fingers. _Yes_, thought John, this what he needed. John kissed him harder.

Then he felt the hard, though warm metal band close around his wrist, and before he could struggle away, Sherlock had cuffed one wrist to the bar of the headboard.

"Oh for God's sake. Was that up your SLEEVE?" Sherlock slid upwards and pinned John's chest under his thighs.

"No, no-not the other one. Sherlock!" But, Sherlock had forced his other arm back above his head, and John now found himself in the awkward position of having both arms handcuffed to Sherlock Holmes' bed, whilst being nearly crushed underneath him. Sherlock adjusted his weight downward, and John found his lungs once again free to inhale fully.

"Why am I attracted to you? It's like the universe's cruel joke, or something." Sherlock ignored this and instead surveyed John carefully. John's arms were trapped above his head still, though he tried to twist around under Sherlock.

"Would you say you have been successfully apprehended, John?" Sherlock asked, with the air of a man conducting a survey.

"Oh, so this is how you plan to arrest criminals? By seducing them?"

"You have to admit, it's working better than last time."

"I am hardly a good example to go by."

"You're my favourite example, John." He smiled. John tried to hit him with his mind.

"I'm your only example. Okay. Let me go, Sherlock."

"No."

"No, seriously. Take these off of me." Sherlock gazed at him impassively. "I took yours off, didn't I?" John reminded him.

"Amazing what our choices say about us, isn't it?"

"Sherlock... You've proven your point. Now unlock them."

"Mmm, actions speak far louder than words. And inaction: inaction can speak volumes." He raised his eyebrows dramatically and sat, unmoving, like a child refusing to budge for anyone. A very condescending child.

"Sherlock. Take them off."

"Talking about it is boring, John."

"I'm not fucking kidding around here." John struggled hard, forcing his knees up into Sherlock angrily. "I will make you... I will hurt you."

"I thought you said you wouldn't hurt me, John."

"That was Tuesday." _Tuesday you were making that sad puppy face_, thought John. "This is today. Today, I'm handcuffed to your bed." He pressed himself against Sherlock's weight as hard as he could, muscles straining.

"Has anyone ever told you you're attractive when you get all whipped up into an angry passion? I have always admired that about you."

"Well, you really _must_ admire it, because you push the same buttons over and over." John wriggled underneath him, freeing one leg enough to almost kick Sherlock off.

"This is a new button, I think." Sherlock rolled off of him gracefully, as John pulled against the cuffs and stretched his legs, struggling to give him a good hard kick, preferably in the face. Sherlock had already slipped off though, and was walking toward his coat on the chair.

"No, this is a very old, very worn out button, Sherlock. I am not playing around here. Take them off." John felt ridiculous writhing against the impossible cuffs. He swung the lower half of his body off of the side of the bed and for a moment actually thought he might be able to tip the bed over out of sheer spite.

"I'm putting the key over here, you see." Sherlock popped the keys into his coat and looked up at John quizzically. "It's no use trying to drag the bed. It's too heavy." Sherlock grabbed John's struggling legs firmly and swung them back onto the bed in one fell motion, swooping them underneath him and pressing his full weight down, effectively sitting on John's kneecaps. "You're not going anywhere." He leaned forward and kissed John's neck.

"Sh...Sherlock..." Sherlock's tongue snaked over his skin in waves of heat. A sensation overwhelmingly caught between being tickled and being mauled. "Mm..." John felt his jaw slacken. Sherlock lifted his face and looked him straight in the eyes, an inch away. The light from the beside lamp was angled toward them, catching Sherlock's pale irises just so, as they hovered in front of him.

"John Watson." He was close, so close. His hands on John's chest and neck. John felt a flutter within his chest. "The thought of losing you is entirely unbearable. I thought you knew." John couldn't argue with that.

"I did know, Sherlock. I did."

"Good."

"I mean... you're not just saying that so I'll have sex with you?"

"No, John. I have you handcuffed to a bed. I could have had sex with you either way."

"Well, that is kind of getting into a moral grey area."

"I wasn't suggesting I would rape you, John." He paused, eyes wandering in thought. "I suppose I could though."

"Oh, good. I feel so much better."

"But I have won, haven't I?"

"Won what?" John asked.

"This round. You're handcuffed to a bed. I'm sitting on you. You want me. I've clearly won."

"Yes, I suppose you have: this round."

"Wonderful," said Sherlock. "I love winning!"

"I know. Now take these handcuffs off and enjoy your prize." John was ready to beg him to take them off. He just wanted to have sex, properly, and fall into a deep, deep sleep, wrapped in Sherlock's arms.

"Oh. I see. I really do like the way your mind works, John. Slow-moving, but not without moments of insight."

"You were just being nice," John scolded. "Don't ruin it."

"What if I want to enjoy my prize in handcuffs?" John considered this for a moment. There was a certain appeal to that - an appeal that was amplified by Sherlock then leaning his lips against John's ear and crooning: "Don't worry, John. I'll be gentle."

It was as though that fucking voice ran on a kind of direct wire to his cock, which responded by going from semi-hard to raging erection in record time.

"Have it your way," said John softly. He wanted it now. He wanted it so bad. Even like this. This was fine. Oh hell, this was pretty sexy.

"Are your wrists alright?"

"I'm good."

"You're going to like this." Sherlock sounded adamant. John half-laughed.

"_Am_ I?"

"Look, I bought lube." John's eyes snapped wide open. Sherlock was holding a small bottle of lubricant in one hand. John had to blink to make sure he was not hallucinating.

"_You_ bought something? You bought... _a grocery_?" John thought his heart might break in two. Never had Sherlock ever done any grocery shopping. Ever. Not even when John specifically asked him to pick things up. Things they needed. Like toilet paper. Like food.

"I did. Just for us." Sherlock looked quite proud of himself. John wasn't even sure when Sherlock would have found the time to pick it up, given that they had been so consumed in the last case. That the idea had even crossed his mind, that he had been thinking of it while on a case... it was too much.

"Mary, mother of God," said John, staring up at him. "There is a God."

"No there isn't," said Sherlock, evenly. "Now shut up and let me put this all over you."


	3. Chapter 3

**However Improbable, Part The Third**

"Be my guest," said John, breathing heavily in anticipation. Sherlock stripped John's trousers and underwear down to his ankles, and did away with them quickly. John's erection was taut and throbbing between his legs. Sherlock touched his naked legs, running those pianist's hands over him in long strokes up and down his thighs. He felt himself growing impossibly hard.

Sherlock poured a generous amount of lubricant down over John's penis and testicles. The warm, slick fluid dripped between his legs. Sherlock poured another generous helping into his right hand. He massaged the base of John's penis, and down, rubbing the balls firmly, sliding his fingers downward. John let him spread his legs apart, bent at the knee. Sherlock caressed his shaft with one hand, and with the other gently probed closer and closer to John's tight opening.

"You've never done this before, have you, John?" Sherlock asked. John realized his jaw was clenched tight, his eyes shut hard.

"You mean...?" Sherlock's fingers pressed in around the muscles of his anus.

"Had someone penetrate you." Sherlock was so close to doing just that, John swallowed hard. The directness of the statement was alarming. And in Sherlock's dulcet tones, he couldn't fathom another statement having more potency as he felt soft fingertips encircling his entrance.

"No." John's voice was barely present. God, it was so close. Sherlock's slippery hands.

"So this will be like it was for me," said Sherlock, his voice low.

"Yes. It will. Mm." His voice kicked helplessly into his higher register. Those fingers pressed all around his entrance.

It was not easy for John to let himself be this vulnerable, he realized. It was testing boundaries he had never tried to cross before. But somehow, despite his better judgment, he trusted Sherlock implicitly, as he always had. If he was going to let anybody do this, it was going to be Sherlock. It had to be Sherlock.

The inevitability of this union grew clear, in his mind, for a second.

Sherlock's lip curled.

"Good." He licked the head of John's penis.

"_God_."

As he took John's head in his mouth, Sherlock's long lubed fingers glided up into John's anus suddenly, deeply. John felt as though a cold sweat might break out. As though he had the flu. As though... he just couldn't think anymore. All he could do was feel. Sherlock. Inside him.

He whimpered.

"It's alright, John..." Sherlock said it softly, reassuringly, and then put his mouth back and worked his fingers diligently.

John breathed in heavily, his chest rising and falling fast. Sherlock inside him; him inside Sherlock. Where did each of them start and the other...? Warm suction. The fingers reaching, curling, petting him, inside, in some part of him he never knew wanted to be touched so badly.

"Oh, Sherlock. Oh, God." Everything inside him was jellied and aching.

"Are we synonymous now, God and I?" Sherlock ran his free hand over John's inner thigh gently.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" John grinned, meeting Sherlock's eyes. They laughed softly at this for a short moment, and Sherlock probed deeper with deliberate, slow, force, maintaining eye contact. John's smile collapsed into a moan of pleasure. He didn't think he had ever felt so aroused by another person. So intimately close. The sensation was overwhelming.

"Oh, Please... _Sherlock_..."

Sherlock took his silken fingers out and stood up, sliding out of his trousers. He stepped out of his underwear. John took in the sight of him. He was rock hard. Long. Oh God. John could only imagine...

Sherlock tucked a cushion under him and held his legs apart. He felt completely and utterly exposed. His arms were starting to ache, vaguely, cuffed above his head. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. He was at Sherlock's mercy.

Sherlock, it seemed, took this to heart. He ran his hands over John's penis smoothly, up his legs.

"Tell me what you want, John."

"I want it, Sherlock," he said, his voice actually shaking. "Do it."

Sherlock's hands spread his legs wider, and he pressed his cock deeply into John's puckered entrance, moaning. John felt a surge of heat inside him. He had lost all control of his body, and he cried out, loudly and raggedly, his legs and buttocks contracting.

"Oh Sh-Oh Sherlock-_-Ohhh_..."

Sherlock's slick, hard penis barely fit inside him. His muscles squeezed in around the shaft, tightly. Sherlock slid back and deeper still, inside him, gently and smoothly, but the sensation was so powerful that it took John's breath away. He had never felt anything quite like it. He had never felt that he had given so much of himself to anyone. The power, the hunger it invoked in him, was surprising.

"John..." Sherlock thrust again. Something about the thick, hard shape of him thrusting so so softly and deliberately drove John mad with desire.

"Oh God. Please, Sherlock. Yes."

"Mmm, John. John." Sherlock pumped his body against John, striking that soft place inside him. John felt pre-cum leaking from his tip. All it would take was one stroke of his penis from Sherlock's hand and he could explode everywhere. He knew it, and perhaps Sherlock did too, because he didn't touch him there, but held his legs apart firmly with both hands, and began fucking him with such devotion that John's eyes pricked with tears as he looked up at Sherlock's glistening face.

John couldn't take it anymore. He gave himself over completely. His voice shot out of him loud and hard, begging for it.

"Make me come. Sherlock please. Make me come." Sherlock fucked him harder, and held his legs in place as John tensed up underneath him. The power of Sherlock's thrusts grew. The bed shook. Sherlock grunted. Primal noises, so unlike him. It drove John wild. Over and over, the glide of Sherlock inside him, humping him harder.

"Come for me, John." That voice. Those hands. Sliding up the shaft now. Like silk. Sherlock's head hit deep inside him again and again, raw and filling. Jolts of pleasure so white hot that the sensation was on the border of pain, flirting with it. Sherlock held him down. His back arched. "Come for me, John!" Sherlock shouted.

"Ohhhhhhplease." It rose inside him.

"I'm going to come," Sherlock whispered raggedly at him. "Mm. Mnnhh."

"Gojjjjshherlo-AAAH! Ah! Ah!" Like a tidal wave, he peaked and buckled under Sherlock. All he could see were explosions of white light.

"Good, John... _Good_... _yes_..." Sherlock slid in and out of him, still, prolonging the impossible pleasure, and moaned deeply.

"Sherlock... Jesus, _yes_." The hand was still closed over his cock, wet with ejaculate. Sherlock gripped a fistful of John's hair in one hand and bore into him mercilessly, impaling him with furious force and crying out suddenly in a long shaky moan. John felt the semen spurt inside of him as Sherlock came inside John, falling forwards against his chest desperately. John's body was slack with exhausted pleasure. Sherlock lay between his legs, buried in him for a long while, his head resting against John's chest.

"Sherlock?" he said softly. Sherlock was breathing hard. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"My arms have, uh, no circulation. Do you think you could...?"

"Yes of course. How ridiculous of me." He sprang up and slid out of John in a hot, graceless, wincing exit. John gasped. "Sorry." He bounded over to his jacket and pulled out the keys, his hair sticking to one side of his flushed pink face. He unlocked John's arms and pulled him against his chest, kissing him tenderly and deeply. John moaned against his mouth, bringing his arms up to embrace Sherlock.

"Oh, John." Sherlock looked at him fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a look of such deep affection that John felt the colour rising in his face. He ruffled Sherlock's hair, smiling shyly.

"We're going to have to try this like normal people some time. You know, go on a date or something?"

"Why? We're not normal."

"_You're_ not normal. I'm-well. I guess I gave up normal a long time ago."

"I'm glad you did, John."

"Me too."

John curled himself against the crook of Sherlock's arm and drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**However Improbable - Part the Fourth**

It was February the 14th. And John Watson was confused. Deeply confused.

He had never cared about Valentine's Day. Disliked it, in fact. He had always resented going out and buying a card, picking flowers, feeling the familiar twinge of obligation. What was the point of a gift it was already expected? If it was required? Whenever he had a past girlfriend, he had always felt it was very silly. And now, looking at the date on his phone, he now felt a creeping familiar sense of obligation, even though he was positive that Sherlock Holmes was the last person in the world to give a rat's ass about the holiday.

He wanted to do something special.

He wasn't sure why, but he felt guilty. Valentine's Day was supposed to make him feel annoyed - not guilty. Never truly guilty. But he did feel guilty. He felt that he hadn't tried as hard with Sherlock, to make this a normal, serious relationship: to demonstrate what this meant to him. He was left feeling uncertain about whether or not this was even a relationship at all, or still just two people who now got off together with some regularity.

It had been just over a month, and frankly, the sex was always great. But there was a nagging feeling of wishing they had not rushed into it quite so quickly. Of wanting to rewind. To slow down. To... date.

John felt completely at a loss as to how to express this sentiment to Sherlock. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much, but at least some of it certainly had to do with the fact that he had never been in a romantic relationship with a man before, and he was worried that somehow he was treating it with less ceremony than it deserved, perhaps because it was with a man. And somehow that made it different. But he didn't want it to.

Most of all, he did not want Sherlock to think that he didn't matter to him. Or that he was ashamed of him. And he was worried that if he did not somehow prove this to Sherlock, show him the value of the relationship in some kind of tangible, traditional sense, that it would vanish into thin air. Sherlock would get bored with it, and that would be that. It would be like it never happened.

It would be just a random hookup.

That was the last thing John wanted it to be.

And so, on February the 14th, John found himself nervously trying to secure reservations at an upscale restaurant downtown, and then found himself in the odd position of tempting Sherlock into joining him.

John arrived at 221B to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa naked, blowing bubbles from a bubble pipe.

"Put on a suit," he said, having learned that directness was usually the best course of action when dealing with Mr. Holmes.

"Why?"

"I'm taking you out to dinner."

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

"I can't, John," said Sherlock seriously. "I'm busy."

"You're blowing bubbles, naked."

"Exactly."

"Sherlock, please."

"Actually, I'm measuring the-"

John tossed his best suit at him. He had ironed it himself that morning.

"Just put it on," said John. "We are going on a date. A proper date."

"What if I don't want to go on a proper date?"

"It will be good for you. You can relax. Get your head off of these cases for once. Get some fresh air."

"John, I doubt 'fresh air' is going to help me track an Albanian jewel thief."

"It's for your health. I'm your doctor, remember? Doctor's orders. We're leaving in ten minutes. I've got reservations."

Sherlock squinted at him for a moment. "Am I meant to be impressed?"

"Yes. Now hurry up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he put the suit on.

* * *

As they sat across from one another in the crowded, posh restaurant, John's meal arrived. Sherlock had insisted on ordering only a starter salad and sat staring at his phone blandly. John glared at him, willing him to start some kind of conversation.

"Sherlock, we did this completely backwards."

"What? Why?" Sherlock stared for a moment. "John, I don't see how sitting on the other side of the table could noticeably increase or decrease your enjoyment of this interaction unless, of course, given the angle of the window and the trajectory of the..." then parted his lips momentarily in realization. "Oh. You didn't mean that.."

"We... we... rushed into things," John said quietly. "_Physically_. Normally there's a period of..."

"Courtship," Sherlock offered.

"Yes."

"Petty, meaningless charades designed to subtly and appropriately demonstrate the desire of one person for another through any number of pre-arranged and approved-of social interactions in-line with traditional Western ideals of chivalry and social obligation left over from a bygone era of nostalgic Victorian heteronormative ideology."

John blinked.

"Yeah. That."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, adjusting his tie.

"Well, I don't need you to start buying me flowers, John."

"No, I know, Sherlock."

Sherlock squinted. "Good."

John licked his lips, barely. He could feel himself begin to flush uncomfortably. Sherlock met his earnest gaze.

"I just want to do this right," John confessed. "I've been a nervous wreck all day. I can't shake it. I just worried there won't be anywhere left to go, you know. We'll get bored of this. That we'll hit a dead end."

Sherlock flexed his fists in silence. Sometimes John wanted to know so badly what he was thinking. What he was feeling. He wished he could read Sherlock like Sherlock read him. It wasn't fair, sometimes.

"We've been sleeping together for only four weeks, two days, and eleven hours and you're bored?" Sherlock asked evenly.

"No, I'm not. I'm just-I mean, _you're not_?" John half-smiled incredulously.

"No. I'm not. At least I wasn't until you insisted I accompany you to this..._ place_."

"But, Sherlock... I mean _you do get bored_. We both know that." John exhaled nervously. "I'm probably over-thinking this."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said with a condescending frown. John's face sank. Sherlock sighed softly, apparently unaware at this moment of what an ass he was being. "John, we were already doing all of the things people do when they're... dating each other. We just didn't call it dating. It doesn't matter what you_ label_ it. We've known each other for months now. And I don't have a problem with doing exactly what we've been doing. It was working for us before. Was it not?"

"You really have no idea when you're being an ass, do you?"

"Excuse me?"

"I can't do this, Sherlock. I can't keep up. You'll get bored of it. Of me. You will. You know you will. And I'll be..." He swallowed, hard. _ I'll be what? I'll be alone. I'll be heartbroken. I'll be nothing but an empty shell again, just like I was before I met you. _He stared at Sherlock wordlessly.

"Can I get the bill please?" John asked the passing waitress.

"Of course," she said, surprised.

"John-" Sherlock began, brow creasing deeply. John looked away. He was leaving. It was fine. If Sherlock didn't want a proper date, then why should he sit here and put him through it? He'd rather be on a case, anyway. There was no denying that. This was all a mistake.

"No, it's fine. You obviously don't want to be here. I'm just wasting both our time," said John.

"I'll pay," said Sherlock.

"No, I'm paying."

"Fine..." Sherlock stared at him suspiciously, a tentative frown of concern crossing his face. His eyes held a distant expression, as though he was mentally scanning for the reason for John's sudden change of heart, and coming up with absolutely nothing.

"Will you take that to go?" the waitress asked John.

"Yes. Thanks." He took the bill as she put the food into a takeaway box.

"Debit or...?" she asked, holding the debit machine over him.

"Debit, please," said John tersely, and took out his card. He added the tip, checked the total, and put in his pin number. The machine paused and then beeped.

"It's saying card declined," John said.

"Here, try again," said the waitress, taking the machine and restarting it. John gritted his teeth and punched in the numbers one more time, waiting awkwardly for the 'processing' screen to disappear.

"Oh for God's sake," he said. "It's said it again. Declined. There's nothing wrong with my card. I just used it for the groceries." The waitress took out his card from the machine and put it back once more, looking apologetic. John took in a hiss of air and actively avoided meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"It might be our machines, sir. Sometimes they're a bit finicky..." she explained.

"Once more then," said John tightly. He punched in the numbers again and waited.

And waited.

Beep. _ Declined_.

"Oh for fuck's sake!"

"Here, how much was it?" Sherlock asked, taking the machine from John's hand swiftly. "I'll pay."

"No, I've got it, Sherlock," John assured him, angrily.

"John, I have the cash."

"_I_ have cash, somewhere, if you'd let me-" Sherlock was already taking the bills from his wallet.

"Here... forty pounds should do it-" Sherlock said, handing it to the waitress.

"Sherlock!" John protested.

"Merry Christmas," said Sherlock, smiling insincerely to the waitress.

"It's February..." she said, blinking.

John slammed his fist down onto the table. The waitress jumped. Sherlock didn't.

"_Thank you_ for dinner," he said, and grabbed his coat, storming out of the restaurant into the street, without his takeaway box. He could feel the eyes of the other diners following him out the door.

The night air was absolutely freezing. He should have worn a heavier coat, he realized. Great. Terrible date, and now a freezing walk to the taxi. Just great.

"John!" It was Sherlock's voice, calling after him.

"Nope."

"John, wait."

John shook his head, walking briskly in the direction of the intersection to hail a cab.

He shoved his cold hands deep into his pockets and walked onward. Sherlock jogged up to his side, takeout box in hand, and stepped in front of him, blocking his way. John nearly pushed right through him. Sherlock steadied him by the shoulders.

"John, regarding my previous remark about you, um, over-thinking our relationship... I should remind you that often the inevitability of my thoughts' conclusions tumble forward so rapidly that it is impossible to backtrack before some remark better left censored for some secondary, perhaps emotional, reason has emerged of its own, albeit logical, volition and I'm left standing in the pool of its consequences, already far and away from that first thought and from any notion of the possibly negative emotional effects of said remark while you're left... there."

"Was that an apology?" John asked.

"I..." Sherlock breathed a cloud of breath into the air.

John narrowed his eyes.

"Yes."

"Yeah, well. It's a little late." He brushed past Sherlock roughly and walked down the sidewalk determinedly. God, he hated Valentine's Day.

Sherlock's voice was raised, slightly, behind him.

"I am sorry, truly. I didn't realize..." There was a pause. "You make me better, John. Better than I am."

John stopped walking and turned, just staring down the road at Sherlock for a moment. The man's angular silhouette was back-lit against a streetlamp's yellow pool of light. He exhaled a cloud of steamy breath into the cold, dry air, his expression candidly soft: honest. Brow furrowed with concern. Genuine concern. John knew. John could tell the difference.

He felt the cold knot of his heart melting.

John tilted his head and sighed, walking back toward Sherlock, who watched him as he came closer. John stood very slightly on tiptoe and leaned upwards.

"You stupid man," he said, putting his mittened hands on either side of Sherlock's arms. He leaned up and into a firm, tender kiss. The heat of Sherlock's mouth against his was amplified by the cold around them. John kissed him harder, firmer, pulling him close with sudden fierce desire.

"Mm."

"John I..."

"I know."

"Just don't leave me," said Sherlock simply, quietly.

"I'm not going anywhere." John pulled away and looked up into Sherlock's face. "Besides, I can't go anywhere when you give me that damned look."

"You're cold, John."

"No. I'm bloody freezing."

"Come into my coat."

"What?"

"My coat. Here. You can fit."

"I can... no. I'll be fine. Don't."

"John, get in the coat."

"Fine."

Sherlock closed the warm darkness of his long, unbuttoned coat around John. It was embarrassingly comforting, standing there pressed into Sherlock's chest, enveloped in the coat and Sherlock's firm, warm arms as they hugged him closer, one hand rubbing his back. John let himself sigh, feeling the tension drain out of him. The anger. It all melted into a puddle of warmth.

He let out a small, soft sound of satisfaction. Sherlock's chest rumbled in response.

"Better?" he said, his voice deep and decidedly seductive.

"So much better." A few passersby may have stared, but John didn't care.

"Mmjohn?"

"Mmsherlock?"

"I have an erection."

"I know." John smiled. "Do you think you can manage to keep it til we get home?"

"Yes." Sherlock glanced down at him. "_Why_?"

"Because when we get home I can think of a few fun things we could do with it."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"You're flirting with me by being sexually suggestive without explicitly declaring your desire for sex. Interesting."

"Yes. Good deduction." John smiled.

"They don't call me Sherlock Holmes for nothing."

"Well it is your name," said John, emerging from the warmth of the taller man's coat.

"Quite right."

They crossed the sidewalk to the large, busy intersection passing several couples holding red heart-shaped balloons. There was a vendor at the end of the road selling them.

"Why is everyone walking around with those?" Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose. John sighed.

"Because it's Valentine's Day, Sherlock."

"It's what? It's Valent-_oh_." Sherlock stopped walking and gave him a somewhat sheepish look. "Is that why we-?"

"Yes."

"And you wanted to-?"

"Yup."

"And I didn't-"

"Nope."

There was a long pause.

"I see. Well. I didn't know you actually cared about Valentine's Day, John."

"I _don't_. It's just... commercial and stupid and I was just... trying to be a good boyfriend, and buy you dinner. Which, as you can see, worked out really, really well. Thanks for buying, by the way."

"Any time." They walked on in silence for a few moments.

"I love you," said Sherlock, quickly.

"What?" John stared at him. They stopped walking yet again. At this rate it was going to be a long walk to the cab.

"I love you, John," he said with frightening earnestness. "I've always loved you. Since you... I _knew_. I just knew."

"Sherlock..."

"It's the truth, John." He smiled lopsidedly.

"However improbable?" John asked, with a grin.

"Yes. However improbable."

"I-I love..." John's voice cracked of its own doing. He tried to steady it and failed. He cleared his throat. "I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock tipped John's chin up to meet his mouth, and they kissed, softly. Snow began to drift down from the sky. John pulled away and looked up into the cold, pink face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Now can we please just go home so I can make the absolute sweetest love to you imaginable?"

"Certainly," said Sherlock. "That would be acceptable."

* * *

In 221B at last, John all but threw Sherlock onto the couch and pressed his weight down into Sherlock's lap as they kissed. Sherlock kissed back, matching his passion, and with his always sudden and surprising displays of strength, lifted John's weight and carried him a few feet to the wall, where he pinned him firmly. John growled into the kiss, aroused and, miraculously, taller.

"Mmbedroom..." John muttered, and Sherlock carried him there. They fell onto the bed in a pile of swift undressing and, completely naked, they lay alongside one another tenderly. John had never enjoyed just the simple act of kissing someone so much. Sherlock's lips were uncommonly gentle tonight, his kisses slow and thoughtful. It set the mood for a much slower, deeper romance than they were usually in the mood for. John curled up against Sherlock's back and stroked his head gently, kissing his long neck and nuzzling into him affectionately.

"John." That voice. And the ideas it gave him. _My God_.

John levered his hard, lubed cock up and into Sherlock, gently, and spooned him, inside, perfectly still. Sherlock let out the softest of moans. His voice was breathy. "Can you just... just... like that. Yes. Mm. John."

John curled against the man's back, and gave himself over to the slow, deep, penetrating strokes he had wanted so badly to feel, inside Sherlock.

"Yes, John. Slowly. Mm."

He closed his eyes and held Sherlock's shoulder in his teeth. Slowly. Yes. Slow. Firm. Deep. He would allow himself a few deep, sensual thrusts and then stop, hanging onto the growing closeness between them for long seconds, minutes, before thrusting again. The tension built at a slow, slow burn.

They stayed like that for nearly an hour, hardly moving. Just breathing. Just holding one another. Every time John did let himself thrust, the sensations grew more and more arousing. The longer they stayed like that, the more intense the feeling of each infrequent stroke became. It was the most exquisitely intimate sensation.

The tension was almost unbearable, but the deep, prolonged pleasure so sweet.

Sherlock was trembling in ecstasy, his voice raised in soft plaintive cries.

"Please," Sherlock begged.

"Mm," said John.

"Oh."

"Mmmm."

"Oh. John."

"Sh-"

"Oh."

"Yeah..."

"Oh."

"Mm." Sliding deeper. "Mmm."

"Please, John. I-"

"Mm." Thrust.

"I can't-"

"Mm." Thrust.

"-hold on."

"Try harder," John whispered.

"It's too much," Sherlock said, tensing.

"You can take it."

"I can't think." He sounded panicked.

"Don't think."

"_I can't_."

"Mmm." John held him still.

"_John_."

"I've got you." Slow thrusts.

"_John_-"

"I'm here." Pauses in between.

"Oh _fuck_. Oh please. _Oh John_."

"Mm."

"J-Nn-ughh-hn... Oh God..." John felt himself and Sherlock approaching climax head-on. He backed off.

"Sh, sh. Sh..." He stroked Sherlock's cheek gently, softly. One hand was buried in his hair, gripping close to the roots.

He stopped moving and held Sherlock there, on the edge of oblivion, for at least five minutes, until he felt the man's shoulder blades tremble against his chest.

He was, very softly, crying. John was overcome with tenderness.

"Shh, shh. I'm here. Sherlock. It's alright."

"John."

"Just let it out. Just let go," John whispered. Sherlock had worked himself into a knot of muscles, taut and held tight in long anticipation of release. "Relax," John ordered. "Let me take you there. Just wait. Sh. Sh. It's okay," he whispered softly, running his hand over Sherlock. He adjusted his grip on Sherlock's hair and rolled them over so that Sherlock was face down on the bed and John was on him, feeling the nearly unbearable pleasure of sinking even deeper inside.

He had never seen Sherlock made so vulnerable, so profoundly out of his own control before. The depth of his reaction was slightly overwhelming. He kissed the back of Sherlock's neck softly, sucking gently, and, feeling Sherlock's body slacken finally, weakening at his gentle touches, thrust again, soft and deep, only to feel Sherlock's whole body harden up again under him and moan out a sound not entirely human. John held him by the hair firmly and let himself rock deeply and slowly once more. The sensation was amazing: spreading like a bruise. John moaned, struggling to hold onto the moment, to keep control, to keep them teetering in this state of profound, excruciating ecstasy as long as he could. Sherlock's muscles were squeezing in around him impossibly tight, his entrance so slick and hot that John could hardly keep himself from giving in.

The only thing that stopped him was a deep need to take Sherlock further, to let him get to an ultimate release.

Sherlock was well beyond forming words, and simply cried out raggedly, loudly, as John rocked himself deeper, just a bit faster now, shaking the bed in a long-awaited continued rhythm. The crescendo rose so hard and fast that John found himself yanking Sherlock's head back by the hair. Sherlock's neck arched, his mouth open, raging helplessly beneath him.

John eased off again, somehow. _Jesus, he was so close_. It had never felt this good. Ever. It had never been this intense. Sherlock writhed, completely consumed, and grunted, the salt of sweat and tears streaming down his cheeks and neck. John kissed his neck fervently.

He could feel Sherlock's thighs shaking.

Sherlock had absolutely reached a point of no return, and John felt the man's buttocks tense and release, his legs now shaking violently. His deep voice rose into a strangled, hoarse cry.

John had never taken anyone so close to orgasm so many times over the course of an hour, without fulfilling the promise of release. He had honestly lost count. Lost track of the time, even. He wanted to know how far he could take it. How deep he could probe.

"FUCK JOHN. _FUCK_." Sherlock had never sounded quite so desperate.

"You want to come now?" John whispered darkly.

"Ghh-uh, uh-"

"Do you want me to make you come?" he said.

"Pleashejohnd..."

"What was that?" John asked, pulling Sherlock's hair a little tighter.

"_Finish._ _Me_." It was an order of the most desperate kind.

"Relax again. Relax for me." Sherlock's legs were still shaking. "Calm down. Sherlock." Sherlock struggled to gain some measure of control once more. His legs were spent, vibrating like a lost cause under him. He breathed deep, ragged breaths, the veins of his neck bulging.

"When I let you come," said John, very quietly, "you're going to come_ so hard_."

"Ohhffff-" Sherlock's legs started up again, quaking even harder.

"Relax."

"Nnn. Nnn."

"That's it. Just relax." John knew he could hold out longer, coax an even stronger climax out of him. "Shh. Shhh." John let go of Sherlock's hair and just stroked his face and ran his hands through his thick locks over and over, whispering sweet nothings. He felt Sherlock fall back slowly, excruciatingly, into relaxation, fighting with himself. His eyes fluttering closed. He looked, finally, blissful.

"Oh John," he breathed helplessly, into the pillow.

John thrust his hips forward and in all of ten deep, long strokes, he had Sherlock right back where he wanted him, on the brink of sanity. Covering Sherlock's open mouth with one hand to stifle the indecent, staggering moans, he rubbed his cock firmly against the spot he knew would finish it. At the sudden, ripcord sensation of John's member milking his uncomfortably full prostate, Sherlock came right on cue. His whole body was thrown into spasms. His anus tightened quickly around John's erection as he ejaculated, hard, for a good ten or so seconds, and John held him tight, afraid he was about to lose consciousness.

John pulled out, planning to spill all over Sherlock's back, but Sherlock, blinking back tears, his entire body still shaking in aftershocks, swung himself around under John, and closed his mouth over John's head desperately. He sucked him off so fast and with such incredible gusto that John nearly collapsed into him. His semen spurted all over Sherlock's lips and tongue. Down his throat. A little splashing across his neck. Sherlock looked up and watched the moment of release in John's half-opened eyes, greedily lapping up the hot semen covering his lips and chin.

John cried out painfully as Sherlock continued to suck his impossibly sensitive head. He realized for the first time that his own right leg was uncontrollably shaking, though he had no idea how long it had been doing that. He fell into Sherlock's waiting arms and Sherlock held him close, against his chest.

There were no words for what they had just experienced. They lay looking at one another, blinking, panting, just looking wholly into the other's eyes. John kissed Sherlock's chest weakly. Sherlock stroked his hair, slowly, running his long fingers through it and finally whispered:

"John, you continually amaze me."

"I love you too. And, as a doctor, I'll have you know that was the most intense, explosive orgasm I have ever witnessed a human being experience."

"Well," said Sherlock, and sighed, and did not say anything more.


End file.
